


you are my dad (boogie woogie woogie)

by teacupfulofbrains



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Platonic Analogical - Freeform, Sickfic, background romantic logince - Freeform, background romantic moxiety, five plus two fic, happy birthday annalise!!!, mostly just boys being somft, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:22:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24058189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacupfulofbrains/pseuds/teacupfulofbrains
Summary: five times logan accidentally referred to virgil as his dad, and two times he purposefully referred to virgil as his dad(OR: a birthday fic for the lovely annalise set in her STELLAR gilmore girls au!)
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders
Comments: 25
Kudos: 200





	you are my dad (boogie woogie woogie)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovelylogans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/gifts).
  * Inspired by [where you lead, i will follow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19053706) by [lovelylogans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans). 



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANNALISE!!! if y'all haven't read the sideshire files you're missing out, it's so soft and good and wonderful and i promise you will love it
> 
> cw: illness, alcohol, drunkenness (but none of these are angsty, it's all fluff)

(occasion the first: the nineteenth month of logan’s life) 

“You can never tell anyone about this, kid. I’ve never done this in front of anyone and I never will again, you understand me?” Logan, strapped into his portable high chair, stares at Virgil while chewing on his Jupiter teething toy, not saying anything. Virgil assumes that it’s an agreement and slides the hair elastic off of his wrist. 

Carefully, he gathers all of his bangs into one hand and slips the elastic around them, twisting and sliding and twisting again until he has a little unicorn-horn ponytail sticking off his head and a clear line of sight. “Alrighty. What do you want for breakfast, Lo, huh?” 

Logan slobbers on his teething toy and kicks his little bare feet vigorously. He drops the teething toy on his tray and loudly declares, “BA!” 

“Bananas?” Virgil guesses. He’s never been as good at interpreting Logan’s variety of noises as Patton, but Logan waves his little arms and lets out a long string of baby nonsense, so Virgil assumes he must be at least somewhat on the right track. “Okay, kid. You get bananas now, and I’ll make us some chocolate-chip banana pancakes. Deal?” 

Logan slaps his tray and picks up his teething toy again. Virgil pulls open the fridge and carefully fills one of Logan’s sippy cups with apple juice, settling it into the cup holder slot. Logan immediately abandons his toy and begins to nom on the spout to get some juice. 

Virgil slices up bananas and sets a little plate onto Logan’s tray, along with a small plastic kiddie fork. Logan lowers the fork towards the slices of banana with the fierce determination of a child attempting to win a toy from a claw crane game. Virgil huffs out a soft laugh and returns to the kitchen counter. He moves through the motions of pancake batter, throwing in banana slices and chocolate chips, and he’s completely in the kitchen zone. Logan’s happy chewing noises and babbles become a soothing background noise. 

He’s jolted away from his pancake batter abruptly when he hears Logan _wail_. 

Virgil whirls around, whisk dropping on the floor and splattering pancake batter everywhere. Logan is crying, holding one hand out, and his little pointer finger is red. “Oh, you - did you bite your finger?” 

Logan sniffles and cries, holding his hand out. “Paaaaaaa!” 

Virgil winces. “No, kid, Papa’s not -”

Logan makes grabby hands at Virgil. “Pa! Paaaaa, papapapa, paaaa, _paaaa!_ ” 

Virgil freezes. “I - you - am _I_ Papa?” 

“Paaaaaaaa!” 

Virgil carefully takes Logan’s tiny hand, leaning forward and carefully kissing his little red finger in the way he’s seen Patton do millions of times. “There we go, Logan. I - Papa kissed it better, so we’re okay, right?”

Logan sniffles. “Paaa . . .” 

Virgil carefully offers him a disk of banana. “You want some more banana?” Logan wipes at his little eyes, leans forward, and carefully takes the banana chunk in his mouth. “There we go. You’re okay. It’s okay, Logan.”

* * *

(occasion the second: logan’s junior year of highschool) 

Virgil is really sick of walking into the Sanders house and discovering a sick Sanders (pun _very much not intended_ , thank you, Patton). 

He nudges the front door open, arms laden with takeout containers of meal-prep for the week and bags of groceries to re-stock the kitchen and two cardboard drinks trays full of to-go cups. Patton’s not home, off at some kind of business conference, and he’d promised to take care of Logan. 

( _Take care of our kid_ , Patton had said, and Virgil had been caught so off-guard by the pronoun _our_ that he’d barely remembered to agree.) 

So he has lunches for Logan for every day of the week, groceries so that he can make his own dinners, and a stock of smoothies full of hidden nutrients for study breaks. Virgil kicks the door shut behind him, struggling to not drop any of the things he’s holding. 

“Logan, you wanna come help me with your meals and shit?” 

There’s no immediate answer, which isn’t worrying in and of itself; it _is_ almost 7:30 AM on a Saturday, and Logan _is_ a teenager. Virgil sets the drinks trays and takeout containers on the kitchen, drops the grocery bags on the floor, and goes to lock the door behind him. He hears footsteps behind him. “Sorry if I woke you, but -”

He turns to face Logan and almost drops the keys. Logan is wrapped up like a burrito in his thick quilt, dragging it along the kitchen floor like a cape. His eyes and nose are red, his cheeks are flushed, and his hair looks like Remus’s after a late night of partying. He sways in the doorway. 

“Logan?” Virgil asks, keeping his voice soft. 

“Virgil,” Logan rasps. “I . . . believe that I . . . may be ill.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Virgil says. Logan blinks at him, once, uncharacteristically slow. 

“Could you please stop the room from spinning? And - and perhaps you could - could do me the favor of - of catching -”

Logan pitches forward, and Virgil lunges to catch him. He feels Logan’s forehead and swears with how hot it is. “Alright, buddy, back into bed with you.”

“Y - you brought me . . . groceries,” Logan manages. “I . . . we have to -”

“You do not have to do anything except get your ass back in bed,” Virgil says. “I’m calling Jean and leaving her in charge for the day, she can handle it. I’m staying here with you.” 

“Y - no, you - go t’ work -”

“Over my dead body, kid. Come on, back to bed.” Logan takes a single step and his knees immediately buckle beneath him. Virgil doesn’t think twice before scooping the Logan burrito up into his arms, shifting so that Logan’s head rests in the curve of his shoulder. “Let’s go.” 

He maneuvers Logan back into bed, tucking him in and taking his temperature. It reads 101.1 - hot enough to warrant concern, but not so hot that he needs hospitalization. Good; Virgil’s had his fill of seeing Sanders boys in the hospital. He soaks a washcloth in ice-cold water, and Logan hisses when he lays it on his forehead, swiftly transitioning from a hiss of pain to a hiss of relief. 

“Stay here, kid. I’ll bring you something to drink in just a second, okay?” 

Logan makes a weak, pained noise from his bed. “Papa?” 

It takes every ounce of self-control Virgil possesses not to bolt or flinch or scream or otherwise negatively react. He knows this is Logan’s fever-addled brain speaking, he knows it doesn’t mean anything. “Yeah?” 

“Papa, I don’ - I don’ feel so good,” Logan whimpers. “Papa, I - I think - I think ‘m sick, Papa.” 

“Yeah,” Virgil says, approaching the bed and gently brushing a hand against Logan’s cheek. “Yeah, you are, kid.” 

“Don’ like it, Papa.” “I know. It’s gonna be okay, Logan.”

“Papa, not - not gonna leave?” Logan sounds so small and fragile, and Virgil remembers the first time a tiny bundle of baby was placed in his arms and the first time he met those vibrant indigo eyes and the first time he _knew_ that he would give anything in his life for this child and his happiness. 

“No, kid. I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

(occasion the third: logan’s senior year of high school) 

“You Sanders men wouldn’t have a proper diet _or_ a proper sleep schedule without me, would you?” Virgil sighs. He’d worked a late shift at the diner today; when Patton had picked up dinner for himself and Logan, Virgil had kissed him quickly and told him not to wait up. 

Now, carefully shutting the door behind him, he’s beginning to think that he should have told Patton to pass the message on to his son. 

It’s nearly midnight, and Logan is slumped across the kitchen table. The table is covered in a mountain of SAT prep books, all of them annotated in Logan’s cramped, increasingly sloppier handwriting. Logan has blue and black pen marks smeared all over his face, his tie is askew, and he’s creating a small puddle of drool as he breathes in and out. 

“Aw, geez,” Virgil sighs. He toes off his shoes and leaves them in the tray, carefully dropping his coat and apron into a heap. Logan makes a soft snuffling noise. “You gotta get _sleep_ , kid. How are you supposed to take an exam if you can barely keep your eyes open, huh?” 

He carefully closes all of the books and piles them up neatly on the table, slides the pen from Logan’s hand and fills up his pencil case, piles the post-it notes in place. It takes some maneuvering, but Virgil finally manages to pick up Logan. He stirs in Virgil’s arms. “Whhmmmm?” 

“Hey, kid,” Virgil murmurs. “We’re getting you to bed, okay?” 

“Need t’study, Papa . . .” 

Virgil’s heart clenches as he carries Logan to his room. “You need to sleep. You won’t pass the exam if you fall asleep in the middle of it, will you?” 

“No, Papa . . .”

“Don’t burn yourself out. Take breaks, let your body recover. Isn’t it you who told me that the brain stores and processes information when you sleep?” 

“Ye, Papa . . .”

Virgil carefully settles Logan on his bed, pulling off his tie and belt and shoes and glasses. “Sorry, Papa,” Logan yawns, eyes still closed. Virgil pulls the folded blanket from the foot of Logan’s bed and tucks it around him. 

“Don’t apologize. Just sleep, okay?” 

Logan is asleep again before Virgil’s even left the room.

* * *

(occasion the fourth: the aftermath of logan’s twenty-first birthday)

“Who knew my boyfriend was a lightweight?” Roman laughs. His second beer of the night is half-finished in his hand, and there’s a barely-buzzed but very-drunk Logan curled in his lap and lazily kissing his face. Virgil, the designated driver and therefore sober, would be slightly offended that his basically-son is making out with his boyfriend in front of him, but it _is_ Logan’s twenty-first birthday, and they’re all chaste kisses along Roman’s jawline. 

“I wasn’t expecting it, based on the stories Patton’s told me.” 

“Do tell!” Roman says, wiggling his eyebrows. 

“I will not,” Virgil says. “You need good healthy role models in your life, and if I tell you stories about shenanigans you’ll never take Patton seriously again.” 

He finally manages to pile two giggly drunk teenagers into the back of his car and pull away from the remnants of Logan’s party. They’re whispering conspiratorially in the back seat. Virgil turns on his music on a low volume and keeps his eyes on the road. 

It takes Roman approximately seven minutes to finally kiss Logan goodbye and stumble down the driveway to his house. (Logan does not make his job easier by clinging like a starfish and begging for “jus’ _one_ more kiss, _please_?”) Virgil nods at Isadora when she opens the door, and she offers him a nod in return as she ushers Roman inside. 

“I - I _love_ him,” Logan slurs, yawning and leaning forward so that his head bonks against the driver’s seat. 

“I know.” 

“No, you - I - I _love_ him, Daddy. I _love_ him.” 

Virgil adjusts his rearview mirror and laughs softly. “I know, Logan. I think all of Sideshire knows you love him.” 

“They do?” Logan hums. “Do - d’you think _Roman_ knows I love him, Daddy?” 

“I’m sure Roman knows,” Virgil says. 

“I should tell ‘im more, Daddy.” 

“You can tell him everything you want tomorrow. Right now, we’re going home, and you’re drinking a bottle of water before you go to bed.” 

“The - the human body is _seventy-five percent_ water, Daddy. Ex - except Roman’s body. His is just made of _muscle_ and _pretty_.” 

Virgil barely manages to contain the laughter bubbling in his throat.

* * *

(occasion the fifth: logan’s sophomore year of college) 

**You have: three new voicemail messages!**

**First message: Saturday at 1:17 AM**

“Daddy - Daddy, ‘s me, ‘s Logan, an’ I think I’m jus’ a _tiiiiiiiny_ bit drunk? I wanna make a - a - a _snack_ , but not like Roman, cause he’s a _snack_ but I don’t - uuuuuuuum . . . what . . . was I askin’ you? Dunno . . .” 

**Second message: Saturday at 1:27 AM**

“Daddy, ‘m sorry, got distracted cause - cause Roman is jus’ - jus’ _so pretty_ \- but I hada . . . a . . . question! Yeah, that’s the word. I wanna make those muffins you make, the ones with th’jam in the middle, an’ - but I don’ remember the recipe - how - how d’you put the jam in the muffins without cuttin’ ‘em in half? I don’ understand . . . I’ . . . call m’back, kay?” 

**Third message: Saturday at 2:48 AM**

“Uh . . . Daddy . . . how d’you get batter stains outta y’r clothes . . .”

(“Virge? You okay?” 

“Logan leaves the weirdest drunk voicemails.”)

* * *

(plus one: the aftermath of logan’s graduation from chilton) 

“You really did that, huh, kid?” Virgil asks. Logan looks at him, mortar slightly askew, eyes bright and happy. He’s holding his diploma, and Virgil reaches over to ruffle his hair. He gently pulls Logan into a hug, and Logan holds on perhaps _slightly_ tighter than normal. Virgil isn’t judging; he’s holding on tightly as well.

“Did what?” Logan asks. “Graduated? Were you expecting me not to?” 

“No, of course I knew you’d do that.” Virgil feels the lump creeping up his throat. “I - I just - aw, _hell_ , Logan -”

“Are you _crying_?!” Logan asks incredulously.

“No, shut the fuck up,” Virgil hisses reflexively. Logan laughs, and he sounds watery too, so Virgil lets it go. “I just - you - I -” Logan waits patiently while he takes a deep breath and collects his thoughts. “Good speech,” he finally settles on. 

“Oh,” Logan says, voice small. “That.” 

“You - you called me Dad.” 

“That I did.” 

“Was that on purpose?” Virgil asks. He holds his breath a little, not sure what he’ll do if Logan says no. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Logan says -

“Yes,” Logan says. “Of course it was. You may not have contributed to my genetic makeup, but - but you are my _dad_ , Virgil. In every way that truly matters. You and Dad raised me, you kept me fed and healthy, the diner is my second home. You’re my - you’re my dad.” 

Virgil hugs Logan tightly, one hand gently gripping the back of Logan’s hair and the other squeezing around his waist. “You are my son,” he whispers into Logan’s hair. “In every way that matters, you are my son.” 

Logan takes a deep breath, and then, so quietly Virgil almost misses it, he whispers, “Eight, dad.” 

Virgil inhales, shakily, and exhales, “Sixteen, kid.”

* * *

(plus two: the aftermath of virgil asking logan’s permission to propose)

Virgil curls his hands into fists on his jeans, staring very intensely at Logan’s sneakers. “I promise,” he says lowly, “that I’m not trying to intrude on your life. I know how important Patton is to you, I know how important you are to him. And I know it’s archaic and kind of sexist to ask for someone’s hand in marriage as if I’m asking permission for someone’s property, but - but I - you’ve put up with so much instability in your life, with your shitbag of a sperm donor -”

Logan snorts at the reference to Christopher, and Virgil lets the corner of his lip quirk up into a smile before settling back into Serious Mode. “- and I would never want to make you feel like you _have_ to accept me. I’m not trying to marry Patton because I think I _have_ to, or because I think I deserve to marry him, or - or because he _owes_ me something. I want to marry him because - because I’ve spent so long loving him, and so long being loved by him, and we’ve made a home together and a life together and - hell, we’ve raised a _kid_ together - and i just -”

“I’m sure this is all just one big insurance scam,” Logan jokes. Virgil wheezes, and Logan reaches out to take his hand. 

“Virgil.” He pauses, and then, “ _Dad_.” 

Virgil’s head jerks up, and Logan smiles softly at him. “I know that you would never propose if you weren’t completely serious. I appreciate you coming to make sure that I would be alright with this marriage, because I know someone asking you this question if you were in my shoes would help to ease your anxiety about the transition.”

“That was . . . very emotionally astute.” 

Logan smirks. “I know.”

“Brat,” Virgil laughs. He blinks, and suddenly his face is wet. 

“I appreciate this,” Logan repeats, “but Roman and I have literally been planning your marriage since we met. You do not need to worry about my opinion in this matter. If it will ease your mind, though, yes, Dad, you have my blessing to propose to Papa.” 

“You haven’t called him Papa in years,” Virgil says. 

“I haven’t had another parent to call ‘Dad’ in years, either.” 

Virgil couldn’t stop himself from hugging Logan if he tried. “Eight,” he says, and Logan hugs him tightly. 

“Sixteen, Dad.” 

**Author's Note:**

> come scream at me on tumblr!! // [@teacupfulofstarshine](https://teacupfulofstarshine.tumblr.com)


End file.
